a woman with passion

Ever since I was little I was told by my mum that I had a very bad sleeping habit, because I slept on my stomach, and she said I crashed my lungs, my heart, my stomach, my breasts and they would never function properly and that I would have small breasts all my life and that one day I could have an heart attack in my sleep. She also said that the best way to sleep is to sleep on one’s back, like her. I never followed her advice like every other advice she gave me about life, not only because I was rebellious but more importantly I just COULD NOT SLEEP on my back.

As time go by, I remember waking up in the morning in my teenage days, checking to see if my breasts got completely crushed and became airport runways. Luckily they grew bigger and bigger everyday, such growth stopped a few years back of course, and I continue to sleep on my stomach.

Recently, I learned a few things about sleeping positions and personalities: those who sleep on their back are confident and ready to confront the world; those who sleep on their stomach are shy and reserved. My position is not simply on my stomach, it is called “free fall”, that is when you sleep on your stomach, with arms around the pillow and head turned to one side. Only 7% of the population on earth sleep in this position.

Personality wise, it says:

You have a passion for everything - including sleeping. Yes I completely agree!!!!
Outgoing and brash, you tend to still shock those who know you well. Maybe!
You tend to be selfish. You are the most likely type to hog the covers. What? I guess I don’t like critics, :))
You gravitate toward comfort and don’t like extreme situations.
I am sleeping for god sake, of course I want comfort, do you want to sleep in extreme situations?


What position are you? and your personality?
http://www.dribbleglass.com/sleep/sleep1.htm

And when you are with your loved one?

http://www.wimp.com/sleepingstyles/

do you have kids?

http://www.babycenter.com/refcap/baby/babysleep/7586.html

I finally understood why I am still single, I take up too much space, I mean the whole bed, and even when there is someone else, I fill the whole bed in a “free fall” with “Passion” of course. At least I know I will not eventually die of heart attack because of my sleeping position, or 7% of world population will do so just like me.

I sleep with passion…because I have passion... I am a woman with passion...

...long lost love

« hello Ana … »
« yes ? »

A lazy afternoon lying on my couch, smoking a duty free cigarette from Finair, I got a call from him. Who? Him? Which who? which him? some guy from Dubai, someone I met 6 years ago on a flight from Paris to Shanghai.

I vaguely remember that due to overbooking, I got upgraded to first class and there I chatted with this French guy. I have zero memory of his face nor figure nor what he did for life, but apparently I gave him my number. Was it because he was cute? or simply rich? Or that after 12 hours sitting next to each other I could not say no?

6 years, it has been 6 years, he moved from US to Swizterland and then to Belgium and then to Dubai, he kept my number the whole time, I am so touched, and then he called me using “vous” (vousvoyer as the polite, formal and distant form in French). He was so proper and calm and confident on the phone I could not make an excuse and hang up.

This is all so intriguing:

- He did not call me 6 years ago, because he was married or engaged? 6 years is enough to get married and have 2 kids and then divorced… or maybe he is still married…just looking for an adventure?
- He did not call me 6 years ago, he was working for the secret service? Now the war (whichever one) is over, he is retired? But retired in Dubai?
- He did not call me 6 years ago, because he was a gigolo, supported by some rich 80 year old woman, now she is dead in her armchair surrounded by 20 cats and he inherited all her assets?
- He did not call me 6 years ago, because he misplaced my number and after all the moves, my number suddenly showed up on his desk?
-He did not call me 6 years ago, because he was not sure if he liked me, and now he finally made up his mind.
- He actually called me 6 years ago, and we had a great time together, not sure where, and had wild sex in his hotel, but I just don’t remember?
-So Sunday afternoon, he must have been extremely desperate and lonely after having called everyone whom he could have called in his little black book, left him no other numbers except mine.
- He actually remembered what we talked about 6 years ago, so maybe I told him I was with someone, yet no questions asked this time, only an invitation to dinner?

So he is in France visiting family and proposed dinner Sunday night, should I?

- What if he is a complete waco?!
- What if he is short and fat and ugly? I have no memory at all and I could not ask him that over the phone either. “hey, are u fat?”
- Would you invite a girl you met 6 years ago to dinner? What if she is fat and ugly and old and pregnant now?
- What the xx, I need some excitement in my life.
- He could send whoever to dinner, I wouldn’t even know. And I could send whoever to this dinner and he will not notice either. How perfect!
- Maybe it is a scam, he will ask to borrow money …and then disappear in the bathroom.
- Maybe he will kidnap me although my family has no money at all. Should I ask some friends to go to the same restaurant that evening to protect me? Just in case I mean.
-Maybe I got partial temporary amnesia from this recent trip, he is really a long lost love of mine?

Should I at least pretend from now on until Sunday that he is indeed my long lost love? Isn’t life all about faith and believing? Isn’t love all about convincing oneself? To my long lost love of life.

water world

humidity aisa

Finair, the finest airline of all time

Creative minded me chose Finair for a 12 and half hours journey from Paris to Guangzhou, China with a stop in Helsinki; the real reason behind it of course is it is cheap. Since Helsinki is way up north, it is sort of on my way to China, the transfer only adds one hour to the entire trip.

As soon as I was on board, I started worrying, I only had 25 minutes to make the connection, if I miss that, I suppose I would be stuck in Helsinki getting an extended sauna until the next flight 24 hours later. As I expressed my concern to one of the flight attendants, I was suddenly surrounded by 3 or 4 most beautiful blond flight attendants with the most strange accent trying to explain to me how small the airport was and that I needed worry. If I were a guy, this could have been the most wonderful moment in my life. They must have expressed my concern to the captain as well; the plane actually landed 35 minutes before schedule. I wonder if the captain was blond as well, and how they manage the airport with planes arriving early just like that.

Needless to say, second part of the journey started smoothly as well. Finnish have the reputation of being rather quiet, yet my neighbour was not one of them; he quickly introduced himself, a training manager for Nokia. Apparently he has been to China more than 10 times already, through this sweet and gentle engineer of Nokia, I quickly understood that more than half of the passengers on board worked for Nokia or affiliated companies in telecom. It is only natural, China is the number one world mobile hand set market now.

My sweet neighbour soon expressed a strong desire to chat through this long flight; with no delay, he pulled out three different models of Nokia cell phones and started explaining to me the differences, their pros and cons… I wish I had taken swiss air, maybe there would be someone explaining to me the different percentage of caocao changes the taste of chocolates and I would have to taste chocolates during the entire trip.

“you know what, I really have to sleep,” I felt so bad when I said that, yet his words on mobile phones were just way more effective than sleeping pills.

In the middle of the night, I woke up to look for some snacks, that is when I realised the real catch of Finair. SNACKS ARE NOT FREE!!! All of a sudden I missed those good old days with Air France when there is unlimited supply of fruits, sandwiches, ramen noodles, ice creams and lion bars, who need the blond girls, I want FREE SNACKS!!!

Boleo – by the light of the moon...Part II

Now that I know I have the attention of the white hair Argentina man, the only question is when and how he is going to come and ask me to dance. And more importantly, how am I going to actually “dance”, I kind of hoped that I still had time for a few more lessons.

Ana: Don’t you think it is time you went dance with some other women? People probably think we are married you know.

Friend: We make a wonderful couple, no? (my friend in need obviously sensed that he was no longer really in need; rather a friend in obstacle, but he is playing along to annoy me a bit).

Music came to a stop, it is the end of the third tango, this is also when they put on some fast rhythm which doesn’t mean anything at all. However, for people in the club, it is the moment which meant everything: it is the moment for changing partners and real conversations. I searched my white hair Argentina man in the crowd, he is taller than the majority men in the club, probably in his 50s, but his white hair makes him more than 60 years old. I cannot really describe him as good looking; yet appearance probably takes on a very different perspective in a tango club like this. Being a good dancer, his confidence and charm brought him all the power to march into every corner of the club with grace and ease. He had a few words with the girl he danced with and then walked to the bar to join a buddy of his. He had his back facing me, I wondered if he was talking to his friend about that girl he just danced with, or about football and politics, or about his wife and kids…

I hear the music changing and quickly stood up, “Let’s dance!” I probably wanted to say, “Let’s practice!”

Friend (stood up slowly): I thought you were trying to get rid of me.
Ana: Just dance!!!
Ana (trying another strategy, this time big charming smile): I like dancing with you, they say tango is the dance of love, you better be careful, you might fall in love with me.
Friend: I am already under your charm.

Did I mention that he was French? And very French? I realise this friend can be a real friend, like a cushion in certain occasions; or a coach for seduction; or he might want to play competitor. But who cares, I am up for the ride.

Ana: So was that an Argentina woman you were in love with? And that inspired you to learn tango?
Friend: And you are just in love with tango, which will then make you fall in love with Argentina men?
Ana: I realize not only you are using plurals form “Argentina men”, but also you responded my question with another question. This is just all too intellectual for me, I better focus…

Before I could focus on my steps, I saw this couple on the dance floor, they must have arrived just as I was busy talking. This time I could only notice the woman, she was absolutely stunning, dressed all in black, a tank top and knitted pants, as the bottoms were too large, she put a knot on each side to hold it up. Red shoes with heels of at least 10cm. Long curly dark hair worn pulled to the back. What I loved most was on one side of her ears she wore a piece of red feather, just enough red and black to tango in the light of the moon. With her partner, they took up all the space on the dance floor, I was certainly not the only one who noticed them. My eyes followed every step she took; I would not want to take a single breath if that will make me miss one of her movements. I was enchanted and mesmerised.

The third tango, we did not dance, I just sat and watched. Yet I could feel one side of my face burning, the white hair Argentina man was looking at me, I know it, but I never took my eyes off the red feather woman.

Ana: Is he still watching me?
Friend: Yes!
Ana: Are you sure he is from Argentina?
Friend: Yes, I heard him talking. You are afraid you get a fake one?
Ana: LV bags can be made in China, this guy could just be French like you, in that case I want my money back.

I turned to the right and smiled at my Argentina man, he had been smiling the whole time, seemed to be highly amused.

Ana: If you just go to the bar after this tune, he might be ready to come and talk to me.
Friend: I don’t think this guy will worry about my presence, I want to see the details.
Ana: Fine!

Music stopped, the Argentina man stood up and went to the bar.

The next round of tango started, I just sipped on my Perrier didn’t even look for him. I was pretty sure that he would turn up just like that and ask me to dance, in proper French but a slight Spanish accent.

As I looked up, there he was …on the dance floor…. with the red feather woman!!! Of course!!!

All that sweat coming from the dance floor mixed with various type of perfumes, cigarettes and alcohol and beautiful music from the past and people whispering in a language I don’t understand, skirts, high heels, red, blue, black and many more… I could only think of one word TRAGIC, written upside down, backwards, in French or in Spanish, it is still T-R-A-G-I-C, TRAGIC!!!

- by the light of the moon...

Boleo – by the light of the moon...Part I

There are two types of Argentina men who are worth meeting in one’s life time - the sexy long haired football player and the old and ugly 70-year-old tango dancer. Since the world cup is starting in a couple of months, no footballers within my scope, why don’t we go and meet the old and ugly tango dancer tonight.

Escorted by a friend who knows how to tango (two years of tango lessons under his belt), we ventured into a local Latino club where they alternate between various Latin dances. Half past ten, the small club was half packed. We found a little table against the wall, we put down our motorcycle helmets and quickly changed into our dance shoes. The helmet is an important detail, since I came on a motorcycle in some baggy jeans, that gives me the right to go to the bathroom and slip on my little red skirt.

My friend went to get us some drinks at the bar like a real gentleman, my eyes are completely glued to the dance floor, fascinated by how people dance. The crowd is rather mixed, people anywhere from 25 to 70 years old. Many look like regulars, they come in groups. I have always loved tango, it is so emotional and dramatic.

This is my first tango ball, I only had 2 lessons.

Before I had time to think what I was supposed to do to pull off this first ball, there is already a man in front of me inviting me to dance. “no, Ana, what are you doing!” I got up and whispered to his ears, “ I happen to be a beginner, but I am very willing…” he smiled and led me into the dance floor…

The tradition in a club is the following: tango dances are in groups of 3. Usually, men will invite women to dance, they dance 3 tangos without changing partners. If he leaves her before the end of the 3rd tango, it is considered rude; however, if he stays with her after the 3rd tango, it is considered INTERESTED.

This first one is not yet too difficult, I guess my partner just decided to walk the tango. I asked to leave and find my friend after the first tango before any further embarrassment.

Friend:
Let me give you some background information. In a tango club like this, there are only 4 types women: 1. beautiful women who dance well, once men find them, they will let them go; 2. ugly women who dance well, they have difficulty getting started, but once people see how they dance, they will do fine; 3. beautiful women who don’t dance well, they get invited fast by lots of people, after a while, it will be okay; 4. ugly women who don’t dance well, they should go home right away.

Ana: Thank you for the analysis, to satisfy my self-esteem, I got invited before you even got me a drink, which makes me the type 3 women, but now everyone knows how badly I dance, no one will invite me anymore.

Friend: The night just started.

Ana: Thank you for being here, you are a friend in need, a real friend indeed.

I took a big sip of my Perrier and stood up ready to conquer the dance floor, my friend had this naughty smile on his face, I had to add “your mission is to make me look like a real tango dancer”. “My honour, your majesty!”

I did the classic salida, ocho and followed by a slick boleo, except that boleo was slick enough to kick un unknown leg.

Friend: Easy Ana, you are not on the stage, it is a club!
Ana: I should get a mojito, that should help!

I suddenly caught a glimpse of the guy who asked me to dance the first tango, he was with a Japanese woman. Rice Cooker he is, not sure which model though. I have to say they dance a very Zen type of Tango, must be the rice and soy sauce thing.

As I was intrigued by all the little details of each couple on the dance floor, my friend drew my attention to this white hair tall Argentina man who just walked past us and sat down at the next table.

I then started follow his movements, a real good dancer and very skilful with women. He only dances with the best and the most beautiful. Women in his arms are just surrenders.

Before I knew it, he was dancing just in front my face, with the most sensual movements, the beautiful woman with her eyes closed. It was so close I didn’t know if I was supposed to focus on their legs or other parts of the figure. Music stopped, he was looking straight into my face, “how are you?”

As I smiled back politely, music started again, he danced away with his partner.

My friend commented in the background: “You are in!”

(to be continued)

when called up by a girlfriend

When called up by girlfriend because she has relationship problems, the wise thing to do is to is always listen and repeat what she talks and then occasionally throw in something like “I can’t believe he did that!”; “I am so sorry to hear that!”; “he will finally grow up one day” “really, oh my god!”…

That was exactly what I did, when this girlfriend told me about her boyfriend cheating on her and thinking about breaking up. This was a typical perfect couple, the girl is Chinese, guy French, used to live together in Paris. Six months ago, they decided to move to China for a new adventure and get married over there. They both found jobs, but one ended up in Beijing and the other in Shanghai, the two places don’t seem to be so far away seeing from here, it is after all 1h 30 flight a part. Numerous fights during the 6 months and she caught him cheating couple of times, now seems everything is too late. I ended the conversation with her not giving much real advice other than some politically correct BS. A couple of hours later, it bothered me so much, I called her back:

Ana: I thought about it more, I think if you still love him, you should forgive him
GF: how? Even if I forgive him, how can I trust him?
Ana: Then try trusting him
…

Maybe it is only easily said, would I be able to forgive just like that? What if she never found out that he cheated on her, wouldn’t it have been easier? Am I just lucky to have dated honest guys in the past? Or were they just better liars? Or because I never tried to find out the truth? So is my girlfriend just suffering because she made too much effort to find out about the truth?

I suppose I only want someone who is sincere about his feelings, but I don’t need all the truth, I am not interested in knowing all of it if it is going to upset me.

A few boring words on “the secret life of words”…

Tuesday nights are not the best nights for movies, as in Paris, the new releases come out every Wednesday. Despite the low ratings from critics, I went to see the new movie from Isabel Coixet – “The secret life of words”.

This is my first movie of the Young Spanish Director, it would be difficult for me to make any comparison with her earlier works. Story is set on an oil rig in the middle of no where, Josef (played by Tom Robbins) suffers from severe burn injury from an accident and also temporarily lost his eye sight. Hanna (played by Sarah Polly) a former nurse was brought to take care of him. The bedside conversations revealed stories and past in both characters and in the end led to a strong emotional tie between the two. Hanna being a war refugee from ex-Yugoslavia now Croatia, lives an isolated and simple life in Copenhagen working on an assembly line of a plastic factory to forget her past. The encounter with Josef and the rest of the crew on the oil rig was accidental, yet it revealed much more about people who want to be left alone from the society to live a very particular life on an oil rig.

I quiet enjoyed the movie, as both Sarah Polly and Tom Robbins were excellent in their roles and the characters were very interesting. I am personally very intrigued by the this type of encounters. Overall, conversations rather witty and followed a rhythm of the ocean waves. The soundtrack is amazingly good, I am going to download it illegally soon. However, there are many things which bothered me:

- As Josef (Tim Robbins) walked out of the hospital after his recovery, he looked just a bit too healthy and sexy with a pair of too expensive jeans; must have been Armani or Dolce & Gabbana. Sorry for noticing these details, but it was just not credible.

- The scene of the Josef meeting Hanna’s consular was too forced and a bit awkward. The director was accused of making the same movie by the press (I imagine she already used this subject in a previous film), which did not bother me; yet an open talk about the pain and suffering from Armenians, Jews and ex-Yugoslavians was a bit too much.

- The relationship between Josef and Hanna is intimate in a psychological and emotional way, it goes beyond a simple love affaire. When Josef finally found Hanna, a French kiss is just strange to express their emotions, not to mention the huge difference in height (between Tim Robbins and Sarah Polly) which made this kiss even more difficult.

- Happy ending of the two getting married and having two kids were so un-necessary that I almost wanted to defend the director by saying “it probably is the idea of the producer or the marketing team”. Who knows.

These are my words, I probably focused a bit more on critiquing than appreciating. It is still worth seeing if you haven’t; if you have, what are some of your thoughts then?

rocker the rollers

I spent all my teenage years dreaming of becoming a rock star, yet I never became one and I don’t even listen to rock ‘n roll that much these days, is it because of my new bobo life style or the slow aging effect? Last night, however, I relived my teenage years at a rock concert, screaming, dancing and falling all over the place…

A normal Thursday night, people are ready to go out and are looking for reasons to go out. I was invited by a friend to this pop rock concert, because her boyfriend is playing. Small club in the Marais, unknown group. I decided to stop by, because it was 5 minutes walking distance and like anybody else, I was looking for a reason to go out.

About 11 o’clock at night, the basement of this little club was packed, group went on stage, it consisted, a singer, two guitarist, one base player, on drummer. Here comes the inevitable question again, if I want to become a rock star which position should I play?

For the longest time, I thought the best position was base, because I could wear my hair in a curly puffy explosion, smoke cigarettes and play base in the back. Somehow, this was tightly associated with the idea of living in Austin, Texas, where I would have gigs every night with different groups and never get bored of the same music. Then, after, I thought the drummer was really cool. Because I could cut my hair really shot, dye it orange, and be the kick ass female drummer of the century. In that case, I would live in Charlotte, North Carolina. Or should I just be the key board player, highly high tech with head set and sunglasses all the time; there, I would live in New York City. The idea of playing guitar and singing once crossed my mind, but I could only imagine me playing rather slow and sad songs, and I would end up living in Louisville, Kentucky which would make it even sadder.

Here I was sipping on a virgin mojito, and almost falling in love with the singer who does not even play one single musical instrument, I finally realise that the best position is always the lead singer.

As I was walking home at 2 am, I hear myself singing an old song by Pavement, rather amazed how I managed to actually remember the words…

Darlin’ don’t you go and cut your hair
Do you think it’s gonna make him change?
I’m just a boy with a new haircut
And that’s a pretty nice haircut
Charge it like a puzzle, hit me wearin’ muzzles
Hesitate to die, look around, around, the second drummer’s drowned
His telephone is found

Music scene is crazy,
bands start up each and every day
I saw another one just the other day
A special new band
I remember lyingI don’t remember lies
I don’t remember what
But I don’t care, I care, I really don’t care
Did you see the drummer’s hair?

don't eat bread!

I believe Jews and Chinese are naturally friends. I love the jews, because every Sunday the entire Paris is closed, I can always go to the jewish neigbourhood and continue my shoe shopping spree. Many jewish friends in America go to Chinese restuarants during Christmas time, because those are the only ones open.

Yesterday however, late at night, I went on a website of a store in NYC to order a piece of camera equipment, the entire website was closed. It is in fact closed all week. I know for fact that it is run by orthodox jews in Manhattan, so I called a Jewish friend who confirmed to me that it is indeed a big jewish holiday. So I suppose jewish people are just so thorough in their religious celebrations, they even shut down their internet sites, not like they need shop keepers for their websites.

I am really very impressed, and so for that, dear friends, don't eat bread!!! Whatever you do, just don't eat bread!!! Although I am not entirely sure why they don't eat bread for this holiday, to pay jewish people some respect, let's not eat bread.

(*we chinese just eat rice :)), that's why jews and chinese are friends by nature*)

aMbitious gardeneR

Ambitious is definitely a positive word in American English, so I tend to think that ambitious is indeed a good thing.

In the small 40 something square meter apartment, I have a virtual garden which expands to almost 50 acres of open land. Here are some previous, current and future attempts to cultivate this land:

- Basil leaves: I bought these small envelopes each of which were filled with at least a thousand basil seeds. I was thinking if I plant those seeds in various pots, they will grow, and I will have lots of basil leaves to cook with: basil chicken, pasta sauce, omelets, salads, etc. Since I have many pots, I will pick from one pot to cook one dish one day, and another pot to cook another dish another day; and as I keep picking, they would keep growing. Wouldn’t that be cool? Sadly, I only saw some green stuff coming out of the mud, they never turned into actual basil leaves. My land must not be rich enough.

Narcisse are these beautiful white flowers often used to decorate the house in winter time as I was growing up. Despite the objection of the florist (he said I should plant them in a pot), I insisted to put the bulb in the water thinking as long as I put enough nutrition, they will just grow fine. Result: it took 5 months for the leaves to come out, but now they are almost a meter high due to daily nutrition supplements. They certainly don’t look like innocent and feminine narcisse anymore; I believe they are ready for the NBA recruitment season.

Cactus: to ensure desert climate, I put them on the indoor heater during the winter season to create a micro-climate within my apartment, and they became like this….

Orchids: I love orchids and I keep buying them, they have a very low metabolism I believe. Not that they will not die on me, it just takes soooo much longer before they actually die… it at least gives the ambitious gardener some hope in the long dark and desperate winter.

Should I tell you more?

It is Spring time again and the perfect season to plant ….something… I am thinking:

· I love olives, if I get an olive tree, maybe I can eat olives in the Fall and pickle them, and put them in jars and give them to my friends as Christmas gifts.
· Tomatos: they are so good when picked fresh. I would like to have a few different kinds, those pink ones, the cherry one, and those green ones, they are so good. But maybe I don’t have enough light in the apartment; hum...I am sure I can find those high tech lamps that will provide all the necessary lighting.
· Should I get cactus again, it is really pretty easy, I will just leave it alone this time, no more heaters.
· Bamboos, they make the apartment look so Zen, and I can even organize tea tasting parties and people will come in there hats as if they are invited by the Queen to the buckingham palace.

Dear friends, what do you think?

Rice Cookers and those who made them…

“How aaa yiu, am flom Jaaaapaan…”, “I am from shanghai, do you know how to eat with chopsticks”, “I am Vietnamese.” “ I grew up in Soeul, haaav ui eard off Soeul, it is a big city ….”, “ I am from Taiwan, not China”… I am not sure since when, Saturday evening at night clubs, you see these Asian women everywhere, London, New York, Paris, Berlin, Rome… wherever you go, these skinny, flat faces and small breasts dressed in sexy outfits are moving their bodies to the rhythm of 21st century invading the entire planet. They think they are goddesses and western men love them.

Hahahaha, stop laughing, yes, I am one of them, I have to confess. No matter how often I bleach my hair and how many steak tartars I eat each day, I amstill Chinese. To be more precise, made in China, re-assembled in America and exported to France. I speak English with a Chinese accent, French with an English accent and Italian with a French accent, all this just to add more charm to my rather plain physical appearance.

Rice Cooker, is a term loosely defined as occidental men who appreciate Asian women, maybe in a rather excessive way. Asian meaning: Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Thai, Vietnamese, Malaysian and etc but excluding Indians (they eat rice, but without chopsticks, so, sorry out!).

• Rice Cooker Model I: occasional Rice Cookers, men who date Asian women but also interested in other women.
• Rice Cooker model II: dedicated Rice Cookers whose only mission in life is to cook rice, no vegetables, no meat or anything else.

Occasionally, Model I can slowly become Model II through genetic mutation.

Did Rice Cookers came into being before Asian Goddesses ? or did Goddesses make the Rice Cookers? It is such an profound question which have been troubling many modern day sociologists, and is a topic which deserves some in-depth discussion.

As a Chinese myself, I would like to think that we women created men, so we converted normal, intelligent and sensible men into Rice Cookers. Me, myself is a research and development centre of this particular type of cooking utensils. I successfully turned all my ex-boyfriends into Rice Cookers; as they go on with their lives to cook other rice other than Chinese rice, I hope they remember to pay me royalties in the future.

Yet the dilemma being that, I don’t like Rice Cookers, I am scared of them. I tried to hide my identity so that my blog spot does not attract Rice Cookers, especially Model II. They often mistaken in the following ways:

- As long as I am rice, I want to be cooked
- As long as they are western, they have the right to cook rice
- All Rices are the same, Koreans, Japanese, Chinese, Philippines, all the same
- I am submissive Asian woman with smooth skin and no dazzling personality

Many Asian women share these feelings, yet we continue to convert men into Rice Cookers every day, faster than the rate we actually give birth and raise our own children.

What should we do to save the world from Rice Cookers and those who made them?

masculine & feminine

One of the great things about living in France is that I feel my memory chip just got upgraded to handle those additional grammatical requirements in the French language. The most fun part is masculine and feminine of each noun.

To help myself get into the French mood, I start the day bright early (not in literary terms). After a nice hot shower to wake me up, I start running between the kitchen and my bedroom trying to get dressed and having breakfast at the same time.

I speak aloud to help myself remember: So, here is my bra, I put it on, it is masculine. I suppose French people just would like to think that everything that hold a woman’s breasts should be masculine. Then the string, it is masculine as well; but be careful if it is a panty, it is actually feminine, I suppose they have decided panties are not sexy enough to make a males worth while. Skirt, feminine of course.

Here I am in the kitchen, a bowl, masculine; spoon, feminine; cereal, not sure, I guess if the object is from modern day American culture, it is not worth defining its gender from French people’s view. I pour some milk, masculine; after a few spoon-full of cereal, I run back to the bedroom.

I find myself a nice silk shirt; alors, women’s shirts are masculine and men’s shirts are feminine, it is only logical this way.

I go back to the kitchen, finish the bowl of cereal and make myself a tea, masculine, even the honey I put in there is masculine. Honey can only and should always be masculine, of course!

I then go back to the bedroom… I will not bore you with more details, but this process obviously takes a bit longer than if I were to speak English.

Here I finished my breakfast and all dressed, all these nifty masculine and feminine objects on me, and I am ready to go out and confront the world full of other problems other than gender issues.

Yet I still spend my day wonder:

• Why would an orange be feminine and an orange juice be masculine?
• So when a Frenchman brings you flowers they are feminine and when a Italian brings you flowers they are masculine ?
• You sail at French coast, the sea is feminine, once you arrive in Italy, it is masculine? Not sure what will happen again as you approach Spain or Portugal. Some one, enlighten me please!
• Some words actually change sex when they go from singular forms to plural forms. (example in French: délice, orgue; in Italian, way too many) How does that take place? It is as if a boy, born as a boy and when he is older, he wants to be a woman. No, not that. A boy is a boy but when there are several, they all become women? What?! Whatever…
• Are there equal number of masculine and feminine objects in each Latin language to make sure each can find their loved ones? Did they take into account some might be homosexuals? And others might decide to marry other nationalities like Japanese and English of which gender does not exist?

looking for my twin

Many years ago, an early Spring evening, it was cold and crisp like today, I met one of my twins, we were born the same year, same month and same date. His name was Reid.

I walked into a neighbourhood café in Chicago, ordered myself a bottomless coffee and an Indonesian vegetarian plate. I was a chain smoker, heavy coffee drinker and vegetarian back then, perfect combination right? Like any other nights, the café was packed, some local musicians were playing. I opened my notebook and a folded San Francisco Weekly, as I was in the midst of moving to San Francisco, this was the night to circle out the potential future apartments. Chicago is a great city but up until then it just gave me such a uncanny feeling of coldness, probably a bit too dark for my taste. My stay in the city was way too short to allow me to really feel anything.

Musicians were not bad, they played mostly folk and country stuff, several of them went up and down the little corner stage of the café. I was still concentrating on my own affaires until I heard this voice, rather original, low and strong, accompanied by an acoustic guitar, the songs were kind of like Palace Brothers meet Elliot Smith. Pop yet folky, or I should say a bit sadcore. He kept on playing and people just cheered on; apparently he was also a waiter in the café. Friends and fans packed half of the café.

I don’t remember if it was because of his songs or simply I had lots of work to do, I stayed until closing and actually got to talk to him for a few minutes as he was cleaning up.
“I loved your songs,” big smile, me.
“Thanks, do you play the guitar as well?”
“hum, I wish I could…” I really wish I could, any instrument really, “ I don’t think I have talent for music …”

Conversation went on, somehow we realised we were both Pisces and born on the same day, February 20th. Wow, so he was my twin from the other continent, I finally met him. Reid, meaning red haired, however, that did not describe him at all physically; he was more dark haired slightly barding and always had a coffee mug in his hand.

He said he would teach me guitar, I couldn’t be happier and was curious to find out about my new “twin brother”.

2 weeks, 3 guitar lessons and four cords after, I had to pack up for San Francisco. I was memorized by how similar we were and did not know what to think. At the last lesson, Reid played a new song he just wrote, called “San Francisco”, and then he gave me home work to do: “write a song with 3 cords!” He said that if I weren’t to write songs, there was no point learning how to play the guitar. What a harsh professor! He also said that the best songs ever written only used 3 cords, I had 4 to choose from.

Months later, I was in San Francisco, I wrote a song about a waitress in mini skirt working in a sushi bar falling in love with a clown who made balloons for kids at the union square. The 3 cords were: A minor, E minor and C major, probably extremely romantic yet horrible to listen to. Reid wrote me a postcard saying that I needed to stock my fridge with beers and my drawers with gummy bears because he was coming to visit me soon.

Few years later, I moved again, he never came, and I never wrote another song…

Maybe I left San Francisco too soon, or maybe he never made it there. If he is reading this blog, his twin sister is now in Paris now, he better write a new song for Paris…

I think about this encounter from time to time, it is so hazy and dreamy that I am not sure if Reid really existed. Sometimes I wonder how many twin brothers and twin sisters I have on this planet and how many of them I will actually have the chance to meet in this life time. Am I allowed to see them again if I lose sight of them completely?

... where is this going?

many talks on the cyber world and the real world

I remember an old egyptien saying - "an image is like a thousand words". So here you go, my thousand words... and this where we are going...

successful match maker going on the black list

Aside from washing hair for bartenders, I actually have a day job – professional match maker for my single friends. Due to some mere luck, I keep a very high success rate in this profession regardless of the season, traffic conditions in the city, nationalities of my clients and my own personal status (single or couple format). What I have learned in this profession over the years is that one need to take real joy in the joy of his/her clients to be really successful. One other thing I have learned is that people can be re-formatted relatively easily from “single” to “couple”, or from “couple” to “single”, as if you are formatting those diskettes from apple format to PC format. To ensure continuous flow of clients, I never ask any questions when one wish to change his/her format, I service them like a professional. The business is not that profitable, I would have to say, taking into account a few free Perriers on the initial “set-up” drinks and occasional thank you dinners from real sensible clients. I can almost safely say that I run a “non-for-profit” organisation. Hopefully the authority will soon recognise me as a warm hearted foreigner and make my salary 100% tax deductible.

Occasionally I also lose money, that happens when single friends actually cross out my name from their little black book (address book, I just learned this term). Why? Guys are worried that I keep bringing young eligible men to their new girl friends to create natural competition for them. Girls are worried that I take their men to sleazy places like Hustler’s Club on Wednesday nights (school nights are more discrete as I once educated my clients) and corrupt their souls. Result: I am the only single person left on earth. No one to hang out with, I am officially on the BLACK LIST.

Am I suffering from the demon of my own success?!

My next marketing slogan should read: “ Forget about the black list, you might be a returning client one day”!!!

Dangerous Game

of bathroom items...

I am so naturally beautiful that

I use WATER!!!

Interested?

I order cocktails and then drink water. I listen to people and ask a lot of questions. I brush my teeth before going to bed. I am not French, not English, not Cuban, but I can be blonde if you wish. I read. I sleep on the right side of the bed and only the right side. I am converted communist, baptised catholic but a want to be Buddhist. I don’t drink coffee. I don’t vote. I lost my driver’s licence and quit public transportation. I walk. I wear skirts…sometimes...with pants underneath. I do makeup within 5 minutes. I cook. Often. I don’t eat pizza. I am comfortable with my weight. I eat steaks, medium rare please! I forgive. I am not always happy with my wardrobe it is too full and too empty. I buy and I bargain. I am international, logical, rational, sentimental and emotional. I am on time. I screen my calls. I smoke sometimes. Between parties, movies, museums, concerts, sports, restaurants, parents, friends and lovers, I choose… all of them!!! I don’t do dishes. I don’t iron. I don’t do drugs. I don’t date, I just seduce…not always. I am against strikes, potato chips and spam mails. I dream, night and day. I am a woman - with lots of potentials and those potentials stay potentials… with me, I , I am me.

midnight riding

For early April, skirts might not be the best choice, especially on a speedy bike. Yet the bright sunshine came through my bedroom window in the morning called for it, so here I was riding across town after midnight in my mini-skirt. It must have been –1 degrees, I could see my breath, almost, freezing my guts out. The only solution to that is peddling as fast I could, ignoring all one way streets signs and “do not enter” signs. The next thing I knew, I was surrounded by fences, no way out. Unfortunately, the street lamps lit up me and my little skirt. Two fully armed policemen walked towards me, I suddenly realised that I was at the side door of Elysée looking like I was trying to enter the garden and attack the President of the Republic. Oh no, just let me go through, Mr. Policemen! I will never do it again. Otherwise, I have to back up 2 kilometres (actually more like 500 meters).

Those two kindest policemen showed me what “non-negotiable” meant, finally, found my way out of the blocked fences, the temperature dropped at least another 5 degrees. As I peddled away like lightening through the sidewalk in front of Hotel de Crillon, I almost hit a door man…

This morning I feel like I gained 3 kilos of muscles in my legs. Yet well protected by some safe jeans.